


There's a Drug in the Thermostat

by ValerieNoor



Category: Avenged Sevenfold, Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: (abuse of parentheses), Crack, F/M, Gabe Saporta is a nice guy really, Genderswap, M/M, Multi, excessive navel-gazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValerieNoor/pseuds/ValerieNoor
Summary: 'Bob is swearing as usual, a litany of obscenities that starts sleep-dulled and incoherent and rises steadily in volume and complexity until it reaches ‘get the fuck out you cock-sucking asshole’, at which point Frank knows to run for it. This time Bob gets as far as ‘Jesus, Frankie, what the hell…’ before Frank realises that something is not right.'It's the morning after the night before, and half the tour have woken up feeling kind of empty in the pants department.
Relationships: Bob Bryar/Frank Iero, Johnny Christ/Jimmy "The Rev" Sullivan/Zacky Vengeance, M Shadows/Spencer Smith, Patrick Stump/Hayley Williams
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in about 2007, back when Panic! still had 4 members, hiatus was not a dirty word (oh MCR, how you tease us), Cobra were still throwing the end of world party and the legend that is the Rev was still with us.
> 
> I'm not sure why I didn't post it back then, though I expect the sheer logistics of navigating 5 different fandoms put me off.
> 
> Take it for what it is (unless you are or are related to anyone named therein) - light hearted crack fic and a throw back to the early (innocent) days of bandom.

Frank Iero wakes up at ass o’clock in the morning, firmly convinced of two facts. The first is that attempting to give up two of his favourite vices is possibly the most stupid idea he’s had since the time he’d let Gerard handcuff him to the wheel of their old van. The second is that if he doesn’t get some nicotine in the next twenty seconds he is going to die, no joke. He rolls over and rummages down the side of his mattress, fingers searching for the pack he always keeps there, in case something happens to the ones in his …. His hand stills, and he swears loud enough that Mikey grumbles something incoherent from the bunk below. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. 

Without the usual haze of alcohol clouding his mind, Frank remembers last night perfectly. He remembers waving away the punch as it went round, and Bob and the rest of them staring at him as if he’d just sprouted a halo. He remembers being quite affronted by their disbelief in his new-found sobriety, and even more affronted by Bob’s flat statement that he couldn’t give up drinking any more than he could breathing. He remembers losing his temper, slamming his pack of smokes –there must have been at least six left in there, what was he thinking?– onto the asphalt and declaring he could give up whatever the fuck he wanted, and that he’d show them. And yes, he remembers digging his back-up pack of Marlboro out of the stinky recesses of his bunk and throwing them down at Bob’s feet. 

In that case, Frank decides, there is only one thing to do, and perhaps it’s a good job he woke up so early after all, because he can’t hear the drip of the coffee-maker yet and Bob is that half second or so slower before his first cup. He poises himself on the edge of his bed, then launches himself across the aisle and into the other man’s bunk.

Bob makes a gratifyingly high-pitched squeak as Frank lands, and flails frantically at him through the unwashed duvet. Unfortunately for Bob, he still hasn’t got over his tendency to burrito himself in his sleep, and Frank doesn’t feel in the least bit guilty about taking advantage of this fact and worming his hands under the covers.

‘My precious…’ he croons, grabbing what feels like a handful of pant-leg and working up from there. Bob’s thigh muscles flex in an effort to throw him off, but Frank’s had a lot of practice at this, and he knows Bob will have a battered pack of Lucky Strikes in his front left pocket, just as he knows Bob always sleeps with his pants on after that unfortunate incident with Mikey’s straighteners.

Bob is swearing as usual, a litany of obscenities that starts sleep-dulled and incoherent and rises steadily in volume and complexity until it reaches ‘get the fuck out you cock-sucking asshole’, at which point Frank knows to run for it. This time Bob gets as far as ‘Jesus, Frankie, what the hell…’ before Frank realises that something is not right.

‘Dude, you sound like that chick from Paramore,’ he says, sitting upright and bouncing experimentally on Bob’s legs.

‘Fuck you, Iero,’ Bob says, or it might be ‘funky air here’, because he’s got his face mashed into the pillow as he struggles to free himself. 

‘Totally Hayley,’ Frank insists, because it’s true, Bob sounds at least two octaves higher than usual, and it’s kind of weird. Then Bob manages to squirm upright, pushing the duvet down to his waist to free his arms, and weird is not the word for it at all, because Bob’s face is cleaner-shaven than Frank has ever seen it before and… An arm hooks around Frank’s waist before he can finish that thought, and hurls him bodily back into the aisle.

He smacks his head hard on the edge of his bunk and cracks his tailbone on the floor and hears Gerard cackle from the top bunk and he still hasn’t had any nicotine. It’s almost a comfort, then, when Ray starts screaming. At least he’s not the only one feeling miserable.


	2. Chapter 2

For such a tiny dude, Johnny snores like a chainsaw. Add the counterpoint of Syn muttering in his sleep and the bassy thud of Zacky’s iPod, which he’s forgotten to switch off again, and Matt wonders how he ever managed to get to sleep in the first place. He’s certainly not going to manage it now, not with the insistent throb of an overfull bladder and a mouth so dry it hurts to swallow. It’s kind of ironic that all the punch he drank earlier has headed south whilst the rest of him dies of thirst, and it’s just plain shitty that he now has to get up and go to the bathroom rather than stay curled up in his nice cosy bunk. He can already feel the hangover beginning to pound away in the back of his temples, and his whole body aches in a way that promises a good six hours of avoiding food smells and wearing his darkest pair of aviators.

He’s also going to have to avoid the kids from Panic, which is going to suck even more than the hangover. He’s not entirely sure how he ended up drinking with them anyway, but he vividly remembers asking Brendon Urie whether they’d intended to look so ridiculously gay, or whether it had just happened that way, and was their guitarist really a chick or not. Urie had been on his third glass of punch by then, and merely giggled and buried his face in Zacky’s shoulder, but the hot one, Smith? had not reacted so well, and Shads isn’t entirely sure that the kid’s not going to come and kill him in his sleep or something. Drummers can be weird like that.

He swings his legs down over the side of his bunk and grimaces as his feet skid on a layer of candy wrappers and small change. Jimmy has been emptying his pockets onto the floors of every tour bus and van since they first started the band, but it’s still something that drives Matt crazy, not least when he’s got a Baby Ruth wrapper stuck to his foot. 

There’s more detritus to navigate in the hall before Matt makes it to the tiny bathroom, and he manages to knock two bottles of hairspray and a tub of wax into the sink whilst fumbling for the light-switch. For a second he feels bad for ragging on the boys from Panic the night before, since his guitarists are quite definitely holding their own in the ‘ridiculously gay hairstyle’ stakes. He makes a mental note to buy the kids some beer, if their scary drummer doesn’t get him first. The kid is hot as hell, but he looks like he just stepped off the set of Mean Girls

Then he finally manages to undo the knot in the drawstring of his sweatpants and idle thoughts about drummer jailbait are suddenly the least of his problems, because his pants are feeling a hell of a lot emptier than they should be. He gropes almost frantically but there’s no cock, no balls, no nothing. For a moment he thinks he’s dreaming, one of those weird, slightly unhinged dreams he gets after they’ve been hotboxing the lounge. But the bathroom still smells like hell on earth, and he’s still dying for a slash, and this feels more realistic than even the weirdest pot-induced hallucination.

Matt takes a deep, steadying breath. Turning into a woman is by no means the strangest thing ever to happen to him, and it’s certainly not enough to freak him out. 

‘You got this,’ he tells himself, or doesn’t, because the breathy Valley Girl drawl that comes out of his mouth sounds fucking nothing like his normal gritty tenor. All pretence at playing it cool disappears, and he sits down with a thump and buries his head in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

Patrick Stump wakes up feeling hot and sticky and with Hemmy flopped across his feet. He remedies the latter problem relatively easily, prodding the dog with a toe until Hemmy heaves a put-upon sigh and flops out of the bed, claws clicking on the lino as he heads off to find a new warm body to sleep on. Not for the first time, Patrick wishes he hadn’t succumbed to Pete’s pleas that they all sleep in one bus, or at least that he hadn’t also allowed himself to be beguiled into giving up his coveted spot in a top bunk. It’s Pete’s pet, anyway, he should be the one with a hundred pounds of bulldog cutting off his circulation every night.

Even without the dog on his lap, he’s still too warm, the air in his bunk stale and smelling of kibble. Patrick pushes his curtain open to try and get some fresh air, and, after a second, hauls off his T-shirt too. The material catches as he pulls it up, and he pauses, confused. That doesn’t normally happen. 

It’s too dark for him to get a good look at himself, even if he had his glasses on, which he doesn’t, because he takes them off every night along with his hat, which is not fused to his head, Brendon, fuck you very much. Still, he doesn’t need sight to know what’s happened, partly because his hands are already telling him the answer, and partly because this feels, literally, very familiar.

‘Shit,’ says Patrick, an octave higher than usual, and grabs his phone.

Pete picks up within two rings. ‘Dude.’ His voice is rough and scratchy with sleep, and Patrick’s getting it in stereo, since Pete is actually in his own bunk for once. It’s also a very male sounding voice, and Patrick thinks this is rather unfair.

‘I’ve got boobs, Wentz,’ he says, and is rewarded by a thunk from above as Pete hits his head on the ceiling. The bunk creaks ominously, then the light goes on and Pete’s head appears in Patrick’s vision, fuzzy as fuck and made worse by the fact he’s upside down.

‘You what... oh shit, dude, again?’ A lean brown hand gropes towards Patrick’s chest, and he bats it away with rather more force than necessary, yanking the covers up to his neck. ‘Hey no fair, you got to stare at mine last time!’

‘I did not stare at your...’ Patrick begins automatically, and then cuts himself off, fumbling for his glasses. ‘Look, that’s not the point,’ he says, finding them and settling them on his nose, so he can make sure he’s frowning at the right bit of Pete. ‘Has it happened to you too?’

For answer, Pete slithers out of his bunk to stand on the floor. He’s not wearing any clothes, and yeah, that’s definitely not the part of Pete that Patrick wanted to be looking at.

‘Jesus, Pete, put some pants on?’

‘Wentz, are you traumatising our singer again?’ Andy’s voice asks. There’s a rustle of curtains and then the drummer’s head pokes out from the top bunk on the other side. His hair is a state, and the two days worth of stubble on his chin glow orange in the light. He gives Pete the long-suffering look of a man who has seen his friend’s wang more times than he cares to mention, and nods at Patrick. Then his eyes widen and Patrick can tell from the way the curtain moves that Andy is doing a quick check to make sure all is present and correct. Apparently it is, because he vaults down from his bunk and passes Patrick a hoodie. ‘This just leaves Trohman.’

Joe is not in his bunk and this causes some puzzlement among his band mates, none of whom are at their best before lunchtime, but Pete eventually tracks him down to the back lounge that doubles as Patrick’s studio. He’s slumped on the floor next to a brimming ashtray, snoring mightily while Hemmy uses him as a cushion. He’s also, they realise when Hemmy obligingly gets up from his plush resting place and trots over to greet them, hiding a stunning set of breasts under his Pink Floyd T-shirt.

Andy sums up all their feelings when he shrugs his shoulders and says; ‘Hey, at least this time we haven’t turned into puppies.’


	4. Chapter 4

Things are considerably less calm over on the My Chemical Romance bus. Bob is awake and fully dressed in most of his wardrobe, plus he has his arms folded firmly over his new acquisitions, but that’s not enough to deter Frank.

‘C’mon, Bob, just one squeeze,’ he begs, trying for the millionth time to pry Bob’s arms away from his chest. ‘They look so squishy. Like happy little stress balls.’

‘I swear, Bryar, if you don’t shut him up I’m going to kill him,’ Ray warns, and Frank has to break off what he’s doing in order to fall about laughing, because Ray sounds like Betty Boop on helium, and despite the nicotine cravings this is totally the best morning’s fun he’s had in ages.

Ray is quite patently not having fun. He’s got over his initial fit of hysterics, and has calmed down enough to get dressed and have a cup of coffee, but he’s still looking a little wild-eyed. It’s a shame, really, because Ray makes a good girl. Bob is basically himself but with a bigger ass, but Ray looks like a fucking supermodel, all lithe limbs and pouting lips. Right now though he’s not so much pouting at Frank as trying to kill him with his eyes, and Frank remembers he’s meant to be being supportive about this.

Gerard and Mikey are managing the supportive thing a whole lot better. Gee has his arm slung comfortingly around Ray’s shoulders, and if he’s smirking behind his coffee mug, he’s smart enough not to let anyone see.

Mikeyway is... well, Frank’s not even sure Mikey’s having the same conversation as the rest of them, because he’s gazing into space and hasn’t said a single word since Ray started screaming,. But he’s not laughing, and apparently that is enough to pacify Ray to the extent that he uncrosses his arms and takes another sip of his coffee.

‘I’m going to wake up and this will all be a bad dream,’ he says plaintively, as Bob gets up, keeping a wary eye on Frank, and goes to put some pop-tarts on.

Bob’s taking it pretty well, all things considered, Frank thinks, except that he’s wearing an entire month’s supply of hoodies all at once. They don’t cover his ass though, and Frank has to actively restrain himself from leaning over and pinching the other man as he pushes past. His ears are still ringing from the last slap anyway, so that makes it easier to behave, and to drag his attention back to the matter under discussion.

‘Maybe the whole of your life so far was the dream, and this is the reality,’ Mikey is saying, still staring dreamily at the dent on the far wall that Frank left after a particularly vicious game of indoor hackysack. ‘Maybe you’ve always been a six foot tall underwear model, and Ray Toro, Guitar God, is just a figment of your imagination.’

There’s a moment of stunned silence, during which the pop tarts in the toaster start to burn.

‘Wow Mikey, way to be helpful there,’ Gerard says eventually, as Bob swears and flips pop tarts between his hands, trying to cool them off.

Ray is looking torn between hitting someone or bursting into tears, and Frank steps in hastily before anyone can decide he’d make a good punch bag.

‘What I don’t understand is why it’s just you two. I mean, why not me or Gee, or Mikey?’

‘Yeah, that,’ Gerard agrees, downing the rest of his coffee. ‘I mean, if weird shit’s going to happen to anyone it’s usually me or Frankie. Remember that crazy-ass voodoo chick last year?’

‘And the time he turned into a toddler and peed in your bunk, yeah,’ Ray agrees, brightening up.

‘I’m impressed we ever noticed the difference. Short, annoying and inappropriate basically sums up Frank at any age,’ Bob says unkindly, putting the pop tarts on the end of the table furthest away from Frank, because he is an asshole and Frank is totally going to piss in his bunk next time, see how he likes it.

‘There’s definitely a precedent for this shit,’ Gerard says, splitting a pop tart down the middle with his thumb and scooping out the filling. ‘Maybe our band just attracts this sort of thing.’

‘I wonder if it’s happened to Pete again too.’ Mikey muses, and there is another moment of silence before everyone starts talking at once.

‘What do you mean again?’

‘You couldn’t have mentioned this before now, Mikes?’

‘I haven’t had enough caffeine for this bullshit!’

‘Everyone shut up!’ Bob pounds his fist on the table for emphasis, and waits for them to subside into silence before pulling his phone out of his now very poorly fitting jeans. ‘I’m phoning Fall Out Boy.’


	5. Chapter 5

Johnny is still holding the washcloth to his face, and Zacky thinks the bassist is totally over-reacting, because he really didn’t punch him that hard. Besides. ‘You were staring at my chest.’

‘The chest you didn’t have yesterday, yeah!’ Johnny’s voice is muffled by the icepack, but the tone of outrage is still pretty clear. ‘Forgive me for being a little surprised when a dude goes to sleep male and wakes up with tits.’

‘You weren’t staring at Matt’s!

‘Dude, no offence, but he hasn’t got much to stare at,’ Johnny says, with more honesty than tact.

It’s a fair point, Zacky concedes. He’s woken up with what look and feel like –yes, he totally felt them, like any red-blooded male would do otherwise? - pretty perky C cups. Maybe even D. Brian is also blessed with a good handful, though it’s sort of hard to tell because he’s lying on his front with his head under a cushion. No one knows what Jimmy looks like, because he hasn’t emerged yet, but it’s a fair bet that he’s got more than Shads has.

‘It’s not all about size,’ Matt is saying now in his ridiculous new voice, and Zacky kind of wants to laugh, except he’ll probably end up as a thin layer of pâté if he pisses Matt off .

‘You look like a fucking dyke, Shadows,’ mumbles Brian, who is obviously not afraid of dying horribly at the hands of his lead singer.

‘Syn’s right,’ Johnny agrees. ‘You’re basically the ugliest chick I’ve ever seen, and that’s including my fifth grade maths teacher who had hair growing out of her ears.’

‘I... fuck.’ Matt spins back to the mirror, obviously surveying his reflection.

It is sort of unfair on the guy, Zacky thinks. Matt couldn’t have known when he’d shaved his head that he was going to turn into a woman, nor that stretched lobes would look ridiculous when his ears suddenly shrank and his jaw line replotted itself. And who could have predicted how awful the death bat tattoo would look when you rearranged the six pack beneath it?

Zacky silently gives thanks for the fact that his own body mods look as awesome on this new body as on the original model. He thinks chicks look hot with tatts anyway, but for a moment there Matt was making him reconsider that opinion. He cranes his head round Matt’s waist to check and... yeah, looking pretty good there Vengeance, if he does say so himself.

‘Fuck!’ Matt says again, with more force, and then buries his head in his hands.

‘Wow, Shads, is that an invitation?’

The Rev’s lisp sounds very different through feminine vocal chords, and it’s enough to make them all turn round to look at him, posed naked in the doorway to the bunks and grinning like he’s just heard there’s going to be two Christmases this year. Jimmy with no clothes on is hardly an unfamiliar sight to any of the band, but they still groan and cover their eyes, and Johnny goes so far as to throw a discarded towel at him.

‘Seriously? I have enough of a complex already without needing to see that.’

Jimmy ignores him and the towel, instead stalking into the room with the sway to his gait that suggests he’s still quite drunk. It’s only once the light from the window hits him that Zacky realises the wobble is actually due to the pair of black patent high heels he’s wearing.

‘Gentlemen, we appear to have been presented with a unique opportunity here,’ he announces, gesturing down at his new attributes, and Zacky promptly loses track of what his drummer is saying, because Jimmy has shaved his pubes, and Zacky is alternately repulsed, amused and terrified that it’s been done with his razor. 

With an effort, he drags his attention back to what The Rev is saying, only to realise he’s talking about flicking the bean, and Zacky, really, really doesn’t want to be here for this conversation.

Neither does Shads, if the look on his face is anything to go by. The dude’s been looking pretty pole-axed all morning, but right now he looks torn between punching Jimmy out or just curling in a ball and crying. Zacky can empathise... sort of. Okay, he can’t really empathise at all, since he’s suffering nothing more than a bad attack of curiosity, which is rapidly being cured by Jimmy’s tendency to over-share.

But it’s Shadows, and whilst he may be an arrogant asshole who leaves his socks on the couch and hogs the bathroom warming up his voice, he’s also one of Zacky’s best friends on the planet and he’s sad, and no one likes seeing that. He doesn’t look right without the grin and the dimple, and Zacky wants to fix him. Plus Jimmy has now moved right past self-love and onto the endless possibilities presented by his band-mates, and Zacky hasn’t had nearly enough coffee for this conversation.

‘Shouldn’t we be trying to fix this?’ he asks, the moment Jimmy stops to draw breath.

‘Fix it?’ Jimmy asks incredulously. ‘Are you fuckers listening to anything I’ve been saying?’

‘Your lack of clothes is kind of distracting,’ Johnny says, and it’s totally the wrong thing to say, because the Rev’s eyes light up with the sort of unholy glee usually only seen once he’s onto his second bottle of Jack Daniels.

‘You find me distracting?’ he asks, advancing on Johnny in a distinctly predatory manner.

‘Dude, give it a rest;’ Zacky cuts in, before things can get too NC 17. Johnny’s allegedly straight, but that’s not a theory any of them want to see tested in the bus lounge. ‘You may be embracing your femininity, but I want my balls back.’

‘There will be no embracing of femininity near me,’ Matt declares flatly. ‘Jimmy, put some fucking clothes on, we’re having a band meeting and sorting this mess out.’

‘You’re oppressing my freedom of self-expression!’ The Rev complains, but it’s a half-hearted attempt at rebellion. He wilts under the weight of the stare levelled at him, and slinks away into the bunk area to find some clothes.


	6. Chapter 6

‘Been bitten by a werewolf,’ Pete suggests.

Patrick shakes his head. After a moment of deliberation, Joe does the same.

‘Bitten by anything,’ Andy qualifies.

‘Apart from me,’ Pete adds, because he’s pretty sure that no matter what Patrick says, his indiscriminate displays of affection are nothing more than mildly annoying. Besides, he’s never drawn blood, except for that one time with Mikey, and that totally doesn’t count. ‘Smelt some flowers?’ he suggests instead.

Joe raises an enquiring eyebrow, and Pete grins maliciously, because he’s been dying to tell this story ever since he got that phone call from Ryan with the highly suspicious noises going on in the background. 

Unfortunately, Patrick must recognise the imminent signs of a Wentz gross-out, because he says very hurriedly that he doesn’t want to know, especially if it involves any of Panic! At The Disco.

Pete subsides into sulky silence (seriously, Brendon still screams if you show him a bunch of tulips) and Andy hurries to change the subject. ‘Have you smoked anything weird recently, Trohman?’

Joe nods, to no one’s surprise, but Pete’s not convinced that’s the answer, since Patrick doesn’t touch that stuff, and anyway, they’ve all been breathing second hand smoke, Andy’s been bitching about it all tour.

‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Patrick says, flopping back onto the sofa and making a little unhappy noise that twists Pete’s stomach, even while most of him is admiring the way Patrick’s jeans are slipping down and he can see pale skin. Patrick elbows him in the kidneys and Pete remembers he’s meant to be being helpful here.

‘Um... pissed off a witch?’ he asks, rubbing his side. 

‘How would we tell?’ Joe asks. ‘I haven’t seen anyone on a broomstick recently.’

‘Pagan chicks, dude. Black hair, dodgy dress sense, tend to be all intense and shit.’ 

‘Wow, because that totally doesn’t cover most of our fan base!’ Patrick snaps, and that’s a pretty good sign he’s pissed, because Patrick is usually very proud and protective of their fans, no matter how much shitty fan fiction they write about him. ‘In fact, that covers most of the bands we know too,’ he adds. ‘Shall we go throw Gerard in a pond and see if he floats?’

‘Actually, that’s a good idea, I mean, talking to Gerard,’ Andy says, with his usual instinct for averting bloodshed. ‘This might not just be limited to our bus; it could have affected the rest of the tour as well.’

‘They’d have phoned me,’ Pete says, hand immediately going to his cell, which hasn’t rung all morning. And that’s really kind of weird, since Mikey is normally up by now and Gabe probably hasn’t gone to bed.

‘I turned it off after you fell asleep last night,’ Patrick tells him, and, that’s Patrick all over, he worries about Pete’s insomnia even more than Pete does. Normally Pete would chew him out for cutting off his lifeline, but he’s too busy turning the damn thing on.

He selects the first voice mail, and has to hold the phone away from his ear as Bob Bryar’s yell practically blows the speaker.

‘Wow, he sounds mad,’ Joe comments, somewhat unnecessarily.

‘He looks mad,’ Andy corrects. He’s kneeling up on the couch, peering out of the window, and Pete doesn’t wait to be invited before he scrambles up next to him and sticks his head through the blinds.

‘Whoa.’

It’s not a time of day Pete’s normally familiar with, but even so, he’s pretty sure there’s not normally that many people gathered outside his bus, and that normally they look a little more, well, male.

‘Holy shit,’ Andy breathes beside him. ‘Is that... is that Ray?’

Pete’s not sure. The hair fits, yes, not even Joe can achieve quite that sort of volume, but the body beneath it seems to have stepped straight out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secrets catalogue..

‘Whoa,’ Pete says again. ‘This? Is fucking awesome.’

‘It is not awesome,’ Patrick says tightly, but he’s interrupted by someone banging furiously on the door.

Andy, as officially the most normal person on the bus (Pete knows he doesn’t count, despite also packing a full complement of Y chromosomes) gets to his feet, but Patrick forestalls him. 

‘No, if Bryar’s on the war path I’ll go talk to him.’

‘Good call,’ Pete agrees. ‘He’s less likely to punch someone who’s a foot shorter than him.’

Patrick shoots him a poisonous look and stalks out.

‘Well, that was tactless,’ Andy says.

‘What? Patrick makes a cute chick,’ Pete says. And yeah, he’s probably less sympathetic than he should be, because it’s not like this is a new experience for Patrick. And at least this time there’s no pissed off Hawaiian deities involved- he checked that at the outset.


	7. Chapter 7

Matt pulls his hoodie up and looks at his reflection. It doesn’t improve matters much, and only the fear of being stuck like this for another 7 years stops him from punching the damn mirror until it all goes away. He’s been trying to believe this is a short-term problem, like the time they smoked that Canadian weed that the Rev bought and Zacky started reading people’s minds, but every time he opens his mouth it reminds him that if it does turn out to last longer than a day or so, he’s going to have real issues. ‘Fuck this,’ he says irritably. ‘I might just stay here.’

‘Get over yourself and lets move,’ Jimmy says, showing a lamentable lack of brotherly (sisterly?) support. ‘I’m ready to go.’

‘We’re looking for answers, not pussy,’ Zacky sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair and glaring at the drummer. ‘If you go out like that you’re going to get arrested. Again.’

‘Is there something wrong with my dress sense?’ Jimmy demands, tweaking a pleat back into place.

‘Yes!’ the rest of the band chorus, and the asshole has the gall to look insulted, even though his sartorial eccentricity is pretty much universally acknowledged (except by Johnny, who isn’t quite sure what eccentricity means but thinks it may have something to do with utility bills).

‘You look like a two dollar crack whore,’ Zacky says flatly, and Matt has to agree.

He’s not even entirely sure where The Rev has managed to source his outfit. The shoes were apparently left behind by one of Brian’s one-night stands, and the white button-down shirt is probably Zacky’s, but the pleated schoolgirl skirt is not something he’s seen before, and Matt really doesn’t want to think about where it might have come from, since there’s been way too much jail bait knocking around his bus recently.

‘You’re just jealous, Vengeance,’ Jimmy says, flicking his hair. ‘Admit it, I’m the hottest thing here.’

‘Hell no,’ Brian says lazily. ‘You don’t have the legs for that skirt.’

‘You do though,’ Jimmy replies, totally unfazed. ‘You want to borrow it?’

Matt knows he’s not the only one boggling at the prospect that presents. Jimmy makes a passable chick, and Zacky is cute in an emo kind of way, but Brian was hot to begin with, and if his legs match the rest of him, he’s now got a figure that could stop traffic. However Brian’s also got the mother of all hangovers, and he’s not in the mood for any of this.

‘Are you guys going to fuck off or not?’ he asks, ignoring Jimmy’s offer. ‘Shads’ voice is hurting my ears.’

Matt snarls at him, but it’s more out of habit than anything else. Brian is shitty company when he’s hungover anyway, so it’s not as if he really wanted to stay on the bus. ‘Fine, someone find me a bandanna and let’s go.’

They troop out of the bus, squabbling all the way.

‘You guys might have to do the talking this time,’ Matt warns them, yanking his bandanna up higher over his mouth.

‘I can do that!’

‘Not you, Rev, we’re in enough shit already.’

There’s already a crowd around the Fall Out Boy bus, which figures, really, Matt hasn’t ever spoken to Pete Wentz, but he’s more than aware of his reputation. Even from a distance, Matt can tell that a lot of the crowd are looking more feminine than they were last night, but he’s definitely not expecting it when a pretty little brunette in a unicorn hoodie hurtles past him and launches herself at Zacky.

‘Zacky, dude, look at me!’

Zacky staggers back under the weight of the girl, then peers down into her pixie face and does a double-take. ‘Brendon?’

Brendon nods enthusiastically, then wriggles free. He’s bouncing excitedly on his toes, producing a jiggly wave effect further up his body that makes Matt feel queasy just watching him, and he’s practically vibrating with enthusiasm . ‘Isn’t this awesome? he asks. ‘I just woke up and bam! Chick! How cool is that?’

The Rev, Matt notices, is watching Brendon with the sort of concentration normally used by predators stalking something small and fluffy, and Matt has a very bad feeling about that. He’s about to step in when he’s distracted by a hand on his arm, and his spins round to find Smith glaring up at him.

‘What did you do to my band?’

Matt remembers just in time that he’s not talking to anyone, so he just shrugs in a way that he hopes conveys his innocence, and hopes Smith can’t tell that Matt is totally checking him out. Smith’s jeans were tight before, but they’re positively sinful now he’s rocking an extra X chromosome.

Smith scowls at him. ‘Fuck you, don’t give me the silent treatment. Seriously, what the fuck, Shadows. One minute you’re getting us wasted, the next morning we all wake up as chicks. It’s not hard to see who was behind this.’

‘Oh, come on, Ross was totally half way there already,’ Matt says automatically (look, he’s been cultivating the art of the asshole for years now, he can’t just switch it off, okay).

Smith… Spencer, Matt remembers now, clenches his fists, and for a second Matt thinks he’s going to take a swing, but then he pauses. He looks Matt up and down, and arches an eyebrow, scowl morphing into a smirk.

‘Looks like someone else is only halfway there. You sound even worse than you look.’

Matt flushes, despite himself. He shouldn’t give a fuck what some little emo kid thinks of him, but Spencer’s tone would make the Mean Girls proud.

‘I told you I didn’t do it.’

‘You’ve told me a lot of things over the last 24 hours, Shadows. I think most of them were bullshit.’

There’s real venom under the smirk, and Matt frowns. Last night is a bit of a blur, but he doesn’t remember doing anything to inspire this much antagonism. 

‘This isn’t really getting us anywhere,’ Brendon says, and it’s all right for him to talk, Matt thinks viciously, he’s not the one who woke up looking like someone else’s mug-shot. ‘Where’s Pete?’

‘Pete has nothing to do with this.’

He’s a foot shorter than usual, despite the hat, but Patrick Stump is instantly recognisable in the way he squints up at the rest of them, and the tired note in his voice. It’s the voice of a man (all right, currently a woman, but usually a man) who spends way too much time bailing his band mates out, and Matt can empathise with that, even if in his case, the bailing out is less about internet damage control, and more about ensuring the custody sergeant gives The Rev’s shoelaces back.

‘Oh come off it, Trick, this has Wentz written all over it,’ Spencer scoffs.

‘In big sparkly letters. Six foot high,’ Brendon adds, just to emphasise the point.

Patrick shakes his head. ‘Not this time. Besides, he and Andy haven’t been affected. Last time this happened it was all of us.’

‘Last time?’ Shadows asks. ‘You mean this happened before and you didn’t think to mention it?’

‘You tell everyone the weird shit that happens to your band?’ Patrick asks, and he has a point.

‘Ryan does,’ Spencer says grimly, and Patrick shudders. ‘Okay, but if it happened before, don’t you know how to fix it?’

‘Fuck off, Spence, if I had the choice, you think I’d still be walking round even fucking shorter than usual?’

‘It’s not so bad,’ the Rev says. ‘I think it has potential, don’t you Brendon?’

He’s sidled up to Brendon while Matt was distracted, and now he’s practically draped around the kid. Brendon is looking up at him with wide-eyed surprise, and Matt kicks himself for not stepping in earlier. He doesn’t normally interfere in Jimmy’s sex life, but Brendon is a sweet little kid, a Mormon even, and he’s definitely not ready to be exposed to Jimmy’s brand of depravity.

‘Touch him and I will kill you slowly.’ Spencer’s voice is the sort of monotone that would make Mikey Way proud, but it cuts straight across what Matt was going to say, and is enough to make Jimmy freeze. 

‘I’m not...’

‘I mean it.’ 

Spencer Smith is a ninja, Matt decides, doing his best not to laugh out loud as the Rev slinks off towards the buses, doing a really poor imitation of injured innocence. Totally a ninja.

‘You didn’t need to do that!’ Brendon says indignantly. ‘He was only being friendly.’

‘He was trying to get into your pants,’ Zacky corrects kindly. Unlike Matt, he’s never felt the slightest qualm about blue-balling his band mates.

Brendon looks both disbelieving and shocked, and actually twists round to try and look at his own ass, as if this will provide an answer as to why the notoriously skeevy drummer from Avenged Sevenfold is hitting on him.

‘It’s your own fucking fault,’ Smith says grouchily, as Patrick is accosted by Gerard Way and dragged off to answer more questions. ‘You sit in a guy’s lap, he’s bound to get the wrong idea.’

Brendon shrugs. ‘You should know, you were pretty fucking cozy with Matt yourself!’

Spencer flushes bright red and grabs Brendon’s arm. ‘We’re going back to the bus,’ he snaps.

Brendon twists round as Spencer is dragging him away, and points at Matt, then at Spencer. Phone him! he mouths.

‘Be careful,’ Zacky says, while Matt is still processing this. ‘He strikes me as the type that might bite your head off and eat it afterwards.’

Matt watches Smith’s hips as he stalks off, and decides he’s probably willing to take that risk


	8. Chapter 8

Bob bats Frankie away for the millionth time that day, and lights up another cigarette. At least that’s still the same. The harsh hit of smoke on the back of his throat hasn’t changed at all, nor has the way the nicotine seeps slowly through his body, relaxing him enough that by now, ten cigarettes into the day, he can hold the filter without crushing it.

He still wants to get his hands on Frank though. That’s a pretty normal desire, one that Bob battles with and gives into on a regular basis, but today it’s different. Bob actually wants to murder him in a visceral, ‘dump the body in a ditch somewhere in Delaware’ sort of way, and it’s getting more and more difficult to suppress that urge.

If Frank had any sense, he’d have cottoned on to this and gone to hassle Ray, who’s finding that E cup breasts fuck up his balance, and isn’t very quick on his feet at the moment. But that would be wishing for too much, so instead Bob is having to deal with the little shit, as well as getting to grips with his new body.

If he were just persistently a pain in the ass, Bob could punch him out and be done with, but Frank usually mixes in enough irredeemable cuteness in with his pestering that Bob ends up laughing, because it’s impossible to stay angry with a man who wears skeleton pyjamas and falls asleep with his nose pressed into the crook of Bob’s neck, muttering about zucchini.

But today there has been none of that elusive sweetness, Frank has been an unmitigated asshole from the moment he woke up, and Bob’s nerves are worn almost to breaking point.

‘Earth to Bryar. Come in Bob.’ Gerard waves a hand in front of his eyes, and Bob blinks.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘We were talking about breasts,’ Gerard says patiently. ‘Pete was wondering why there’s such a disparity in size among a fairly equal demographic.’

‘Was I?’ Pete asks. He’s lurking on the outskirts of the group, keeping behind Frank in an effort to avoid further outbursts of Bob’s wrath.

Bob thinks he’s overreacting; he didn’t hit him that hard, and he totally apologised once it became clear that for once, this wasn’t Wentz’s fault. 

‘I paraphrased,’ Gerard says, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another. He’s grinning the self-satisfied grin of someone who has figured out that watching other people with problems beats having any of his own, and Bob really wants to wipe that smile off his stupid face.

He checks himself, surprised. Gerard was an asshole when he was an alcoholic, but since sobering up he’s been probably the easiest member of the band to get along with, pathetically anxious to please and make amends for previous crimes. He doesn’t leave flat irons in Bob’s bed, he doesn’t take the last beer, and –Bob bats Frank away without breaking his train of thought- he doesn’t treat Bob as a personal jungle gym. Gerard is awesome.

‘...all to do with penis size.’

Bob coughs out a lungful of smoke, and mentally adjusts his assessment of awesome to include really fucking weird. ‘You what?’

‘Boob size,’ Frankie interrupts. ‘Gee and Pete...’

‘Whoa, wait, don’t bring me into this!’ Pete objects, raising his hands and backing away.

‘Gee and an anonymous person who isn’t Pete Wentz think that people’s new cup size is dependent on the size of their weiner,’ Frank says, sticking his tongue out at Pete. ‘Which would explain Ray.’

‘Fuck you, Frank.’

‘No thanks, dude, you’d rip me in half!’

‘Oh God, bad mental place,’ Gerard groans, burying his head in his hands. ‘Geez, Frankie, that’s not what I said.’

Frank doesn’t look in the least bit repentant, but he does look thoughtful, which is never a good sign. He’s also eyeing Bob’s chest speculatively, and Bob folds his arms warningly.

‘You even think about voicing that thought, Iero, and I will crucify you and leave you for the fangirls.’

‘Aw, come on, Bobarella, size isn’t everything, you know, it’s what you do with it that counts.’ Frank mimes deep consideration. ‘Although, given you haven’t gotten laid since I met you, that’s not the consolation it should be.’

Bob has always prided himself on being able to keep a firm lid on his temper. He hits things and shouts a lot, yes, but he’s not totally lost it for years, not since he was working with the Used. But even Bert didn’t push his buttons like this and he’s already planning his defence plea as he dives for Frank.

Frank, it is immediately apparent, doesn’t realise he’s about to die, because rather than struggling to get away, he clasps his hands and bats his eyelashes at Bob. ‘Ooh, are we getting physical? Going to show me your moves?’

Bob stares back into those big eyes for a second and then shrugs. ‘Okay then,’ he says, and punches him.

He gets in a good three or four blows before he feels hands on his shoulders, dragging him inexorably backwards.

‘Leave it, Bryar. Bryar!’

M Shadows’ voice is cracked and squeaky, but unmistakably a command, one that’s emphasised by the way he’s got Bob’s arms pinned, holding him back with the assistance of his bassist. 

Bob tries to wriggle free anyway, though if Avenged are involved, it’s pretty futile. ‘Get the fuck off me, Shadows, I’m going to break his face!’

‘You’ve already done that, dude. Come on, calm down.’

‘No, no, bring it on!’ Frankie is leaning on Zacky Vengeance for support, blood pouring down his face, but his eyes are bright, that hard, joyously insane look he gets when he’s just hit self-destruct mode. ‘Come on, Bryar, I’m not bothered about hitting a chick. You want to take it out on me, help yourself. I’ll knock some fucking sense into you!’

‘No one is knocking any sense into anyone!’ Matt declares, twisting Bob’s arm up higher as he struggles to get free. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you two?’

‘I’ll tell you after I’ve killed him,’ Bob grunts. Shadows has him in a lock, and his arm feels like it’s about to be wrenched from its socket.

‘I’ll tell you,’ Frankie says, shaking off Zacky’s restraining hand. ‘Bob here has a stick up his ass the size of fucking Texas, because he woke up a chick this morning, and he lost his sense of humour along with his balls!’

‘No, I can’t deal with the fact my guitarist is a giant pain in the ass!’ Bob snaps.

‘Whoa, wait, Frank is the stick up your ass?’ Zacky asks, pursing his lips. ‘Cause that’s kinda gay.’

Beside him, Bob hears Johnny Christ stifle a snigger. Somehow, that just serves to make Bob angrier, and he twists desperately in Shadows’ grip, almost tearing his arm off.

But Ray and Gerard are there now, the latter heading straight for Frank, the former for Bob, convincing Shadows to let go of him.

‘I’ve got it, dude.’ Ray grabs Bob’s hoodie –one of Bob’s hoodies– as he starts for Frank, yanking him back. ‘Bob, chill.’

He wraps both arms firmly around Bob, effectively smothering him with his new assets. Bob chokes on a faceful of boob, and the red mist starts to fade as he turns his head to breathe.

‘Hey, Toro, don’t suffocate the man,’ Gerard admonishes, and Bob can actually feel Ray blush.

‘Shit, sorry, sorry, sorry.’ Ray practically shoves Bob away, beet red with embarrassment.

‘No, no, go for it. I’m totally into girl on...’ Gerard claps a firm hand over Frankie’s mouth, cutting him off.

‘Come on, we’re going back to the bus to sort this mess out.’ He turns away, moving rather slower than usual because Frank has wrapped both legs round his waist and is generally being uncooperative in the way he does so well.

‘Do you think Avenged need another guitarist?’ Ray wonders as they follow. ‘I could do with a dose of normality.’

Bob considers this for a moment. ‘I’m sure they’d give you a dose of something,’ he says eventually, and is rewarded by a reluctant grin. Ray, apparently, is made of resilient stuff.

The bus door is closed when they reach it, which Bob thinks is rather weird. There’s been pretty much an open door policy on this tour (which has its disadvantages, like when Gabe Saporta used their kitchen to make space cakes, and they had to travel with the windows open for three days until the smell went away), and he’s pretty sure they left it open when they headed over to the Fall Out Boy bus.

Gee, however, is too busy wrangling Frank to notice, just punches the code in with the hand that isn’t trying to stop his guitarist pulling down his pants, and goes in.

Bob can’t help but feel a grim sense of satisfaction at the way Frank bangs his head on the doorframe and drops to the floor as Gerard squeezes through. He’s no longer blinded by the desire to kill the smaller man, but he’s open to the prospect of mild bodily harm and Frank’s going to have a goose-egg to match his bloody nose and split lip. 

The inside of the bus is in darkness, so Ray flicks on the lights. There’s a curse and a scuffle, then a plaintive voice. ‘Jesus, Gee, can’t you knock?’

Bob stares. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Mikey naked before. It’s not even as if he hasn’t seen Mikey naked and wrapped round an equally naked girl, because buses are just that bad for privacy. Mikey naked and wrapped round an equally naked girl who is the drummer out of Avenged Sevenfold, however, is a new one on him, and an experience he could have done without.

Apparently Gerard feels the same, because he makes a sound like someone torturing a hamster and turns his back, only to look round again a second later, expression a bizarre mixture of horror and indignation. ‘Mikey Way, you’re a girl!

‘Pretty hot, huh?’ The Rev says brightly, smiling in a way that makes Ray swallow audibly and back out of the room. ‘If you guys ever find out who worked this mojo, be sure and shake his hand for me. I’d do it myself but...’ He pauses, and Mikey, pinned beneath him, chokes off a gasp. ‘Kind of occupied here.’

‘Oh God, I’m going to need fucking years of therapy,’ Gerard mutters covering his face with his hands. ‘Mikes, could you please... let go of... Jesus. Were you ever going to tell us?’

Mikey disentangles himself from the Rev enough that he can actually sit up and grab a T-shirt. ‘I didn’t think it was that big a deal, Gee, sorry.’

‘Not that big a deal? Mikey, you turned into a woman!’

‘Oh, now he freaks,’ Ray mutters from behind the door. ‘It was fucking hilarious when we got a sex change, but suddenly Mikey’s involved and it’s all gone horribly wrong.’

Bob shrugs. He thinks Gerard’s freakout is less to do with the whole gender swap thing, and a lot more to do with the fact that his baby brother is cuddled up with a man who makes Pete Wentz look like a model of restraint.

‘Can you guys give us a minute?’ Mikey is asking, apparently unaware of the fact that his brother is experiencing an existential crisis. ‘Rev, can you move your ha... oh... I... not that hand, the other one.’

Gerard makes another strangled noise of horror, and Bob decides he’s had enough of this. He wraps a firm hand around his almost catatonic singer and steers him into the bunk area.

‘Get him out of here, Mikey,’ he hears Frank order, and then the smaller boy is kicking the door closed, pushing them all into the back room. 

Bob props Gerard in a chair and hands him a cup of (cold) coffee, then turns to the other two. ‘Right, we need to...’

Frank catches him square in the chest, and they go down in a tangle of limbs, Bob underneath this time, gasping for breath and anticipating a world of pain, because Frankie punches fucking hard for someone so small. But Frank doesn’t even attempt to hit him, just wraps himself round Bob like an octopus and buries his face in Bob’s shoulder.

‘Oh my God, Bob Bryar, promise me you will never sleep with the Rev!’

‘I... what the fuck, Frankie?’ Bob struggles to sit up, but Frank is like a limpet, clinging on for dear life with every available limb, and even breathing is kind of tricky.

‘Just promise, Bryar. I’m an asshole, all right, you can pound me into the floor later, but promise.’

Bob opens his mouth to deny any desire to lay so much as a finger on the Rev, and then pauses. Frank is looking up at him, all big, earnest eyes and bleeding lip, and the sudden twist of want in Bob’s chest hits harder than any punch. ‘I...’ he licks suddenly dry lips. ‘I promise.’

Frank heaves a sigh of relief, but doesn’t let go, instead squirming into a more comfortable position, curled up against Bob with his head resting on the bigger man’s chest. ‘Good. Now, how are we going to fix you?’

Bob wraps an arm round Frank and thinks he might be too far gone for any fix.


	9. Chapter 9

‘I’m not having sex with you,’ Joe says automatically, not even bothering to look up from his comic as the door creaks open.

There’s an embarrassed silence, which lasts long enough for Joe to realise that it’s obviously not Pete, then there’s a polite, very feminine cough. 

‘Um, good?’

Joe hits his head against his pillow a couple of times, then looks up at the girl in the doorway. He’s not entirely sure why Hayley Williams is on his bus, but he supposes he should be polite since she’s an actual girl and they’re in short supply on this tour. ‘I’m glad we agree on this subject,’ he says gravely, and is rewarded by a giggle. 

‘Pete’s already propositioned me,’ she confesses. ‘Then your drummer threw a cushion at him and, well, I thought it best to leave.’

‘Good call.’ Joe had taken refuge in his bunk for similar reasons, and Patrick has been barricaded in the back lounge ever since Pete turned up the bus heating in an attempt to make him take off his T-shirt. ‘What can I do for you?’

Hayley blushes, an interesting effect that clashes horribly with her orange hair. ‘I, uh, actually came to see if Patrick was coping.’

Joe gestures towards the locked door. ‘He shut himself in there about an hour ago and he won’t let anyone else in. I don’t know whether that counts as coping or not, really.’

‘The rest of my band are curled up in front of the TV watching Gossip Girl and eating my Ben and Jerry’s stash. There may have been nail varnish involved. I have a pretty flexible definition of coping.’

Joe doubts that Patrick is coping in the slightest, but he’s not about to tell Hayley that, no matter how sweet he thinks she is. Apparently some of this must show on his face, because Hayley juts her chin out in a determined manner and tries the door-handle. ‘Patrick? It’s Hayley. Can you let me in?’

The answer from the back lounge is conspicuous by its absence.

‘Patrick?’ she tries again. ‘Talk to me?’

‘I told you,’ Joe says, not unkindly. ‘There’s no reasoning with him when he’s upset. He’ll come out eventually.’ Probably not until he’s turned back, if the time he sprouted wings is anything to go by, but you never know.

‘I think I can speed ‘eventually’ up,’ Hayley says. She’s carrying one of those canvas shopping bags Joe has started seeing everywhere, this one emblazoned with a skull and crossbones, and now she reaches into it, taking out an old record.

She taps on the door again. ‘Hey, Stump, I’ve got something for you. You’re keen on David Bowie, right?’

Joe waits expectantly for the door to open, because saying Patrick is ‘keen on’ Bowie is like saying Gerard Way is ‘a little odd’ or that Joe himself is ‘mildly stoned.’ Hayley’s definitely been doing her homework

There’s a creak from behind the door that suggests someone is leaning against it, or at least very near to it, but the door does not open. Patrick is either too emo to be distracted by music, or he’s just being stubborn.

Hayley, however, seems unconcerned by the lack of response, and drops to her knees. ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to disturb you, so I’m just going to slide it under the door, and you can listen to it when...’

Patrick must have been leaning against the door to have been able to open it so fast. ‘Don’t do that, you’ll damage it!’ he exclaims, and then pulls himself up short, staring at the two of them.

Hayley is grinning like the Cheshire Cat as she gets to her feet, and Joe almost wants to applaud, because he’s never seen anyone out-manoeuvre Patrick quite so smoothly. 

Patrick seems about to slam the door again, but Hayley is too quick for him, jamming a sneakered foot in the gap and then inserting the rest of herself as well before Patrick can react.

The door closes behind them, and it’s only then that Joe realises that he actually has no idea what Hayley is doing there, or why she wants to see Patrick. He knows that she’s been generally circulating and debriefing anyone who seems ill at ease with their new gender, but that’s mainly been limited to handing out Tylenol and hugs, and firmly turning down The Rev’s proposition of a threesome (‘or foursome? Moresome? Come on Hayley, please?’). Bribing her way in with Bowie seems kind of above and beyond the call of duty, and Joe is kind of curious now.

He shuffles up to the head of his bunk and presses his ear against the wall, straining to hear anything. Patrick’s voice is a higher rumble than usual, talking fast and nervous, but still unintelligible. Hayley is higher still, and Joe doesn’t need to know what she’s saying to know she’s reasoning with Patrick, and that he’s taking it badly. His voice rises in pitch and volume, becoming suddenly audible.

‘...feels fucking miserable, that’s how it feels! Everyone’s staring at me like I’m going to fucking fix it and...’

There’s a thump and silence, which lasts for long enough that Joe starts to worry. There aren’t many things that will derail Patrick when he’s that angry, and most of them involve physical violence. Whilst Joe likes Hayley, he doesn’t like her enough to let her assault his singer. He slides off the bed and pads over to the door, listening for sounds that could indicate blood being shed.

Still nothing. Hayley was carrying that bag; she could have had anything stashed in there. She could be like that girl out of the Japanese movie Pete was watching last night, an innocent demeanour hiding the soul of a killer. Patrick could already be dead at her hands!

And then, finally, he hears Patrick let out a long, low breath, almost a sigh.

‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

His voice is quiet, resigned, and Joe can just imagine him slumped on the floor, hand pressed to the wound in his chest, staring up at his killer in disbelief.

‘Maybe not, but I’m about to do it again, unless you stop me.’ Hayley’s voice is light, almost teasing, no trace of remorse for the dreadful thing she’s done, and Joe’s hand tightens on the doorknob in preparation for his dramatic rescue. 

It’s locked. Joe stares at it in disbelief. Patrick is being slaughtered by a mass-murderer in the guise of a pretty little singer, and Joe can’t even go to his rescue because the idiot has locked the door behind him!

Then Patrick makes this little whimpering noise, and Joe realises that he may have gotten the wrong end of the stick, an impression that is further borne out a few minutes later by the unmistakeable sound of a zipper sliding undone, and a moan that could have been from either of them.

Joe has had many unflattering epithets applied to him in his short lifetime, but voyeur is not one of them (besides, he’s in a band with Pete Wentz, who pretty much exemplifies the term) so he grabs his comic and makes a sharp exit. It’s only when he’s past the gauntlet of Pete’s grabby hands that he realises his most precious possession is still in his bunk.

He sighs and fishes out his phone. ‘Walker? Dude, it’s Joe. You got any?’

Jon Walker, as well as being a life-saver, is the most laid-back person Joe knows, and Joe’s a stoner, right, so he knows laid-back when he sees it. Jon is also a very hospitable person, and not only promises to supply Joe with what he needs, but invites him to come join him on the top of Panic’s bus to smoke it.

Joe is happy to be anywhere that doesn’t involve hearing Patrick get laid, and heads straight over.

Jon is already up there, flat on his back and blowing smoke rings into the still summer air. Joe’s not surprised to see that he’s also a chick, since it seems to be pretty much a universal thing, and he’s even less surprised that Jon looks totally unbothered by his new body. He’s being kept company by Ryan, who looks much the same as ever, and the most ravishing girl Joe has ever seen, a tall brunette with frankly stunning legs. Joe doesn’t recognise her, so he nods politely and sits down next to her. It’s only when she stretches out a hand to take the joint, exposing the inked-in monsters writhing under the sleeve of her sweatshirt, that Joe realises who she is.

‘Gates?’

‘Don’t even start,’ the girl warns, and yeah, that’s definitely Brian, the lazy, Marlboro-roughened tone still evident despite the higher pitch. She (he, Joe mentally amends) points the joint at him threateningly. ‘I swear, one joke and I will kick your ass from here to Arizona. I’ve already heard them all from my band mates, thanks.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Joe sighs, feeling a surge of empathy. ‘You would not believe what just happened on my bus.’

‘Brendon pogoed naked round the living room?’ Jon asks, blowing another perfect smoke ring. ‘No? I guess he saves that party trick for his band mates.’

‘Brendon.... pogo?’ Joe eyes him suspiciously, thinking he’s being wound up, but Jon doesn’t even twitch. And this is Brendon Urie they’re talking about here. It’s totally feasible.

‘That’s nothing,’ Brian says mournfully. ‘Jimmy wanted to organise a band orgy! I’m like “what the fuck? Who the hell would even do that?”’

Ryan chokes midway through a drag, and coughs out a lungful of smoke.


	10. Chapter 10

‘Matt! He’s doing it again!’ Johnny backs himself further into the corner, but the Rev is considerably taller than him and with much longer arms, and Johnny is seriously scared for his virtue. ‘Zacky! Get him off me!’

‘Sorry dude!’ Zacky yells back. ‘I appear to have accidentally locked myself in the bathroom. Whoops!’

‘You know, playing hard to get is no more attractive in guys than it is in chicks,’ the Rev says, sounding exasperated. ‘Just give it up already, Johnny.’

Johnny glances frantically at the door, but Zacky is conspicuous by his absence, and Matt is either pretending to be deaf, or pissing himself with laughter from a safe distance. The thought of the singer gives him an idea, and he grabs Jimmy’s hand as the other man reaches for his belt. ‘Whoa, no, wait, Jimmy, dude, seriously. Why don’t you go pester Shads instead?’

‘Because I like not being a human pretzel?’ Jimmy sounds incredulous, and Johnny, who has been on the receiving end of Matt’s hormones a couple of times already today, has to admit it’s a good point.

The Rev makes another grab for Johnny’s belt, this time successful, and Johnny squeaks with terror, squirming desperately to get free. ‘You could… tell him orgasms are good for his cramps or something?’ he offers. ‘He’d totally go for that!’

‘I’m not interested in earning my red wings, and he’s too ugly for my tastes anyway,’ Jimmy says dismissively.

Johnny gapes at that, because, okay, Shads may not be winning beauty pageants in his current incarnation, but Johnny himself is hardly an oil painting. His confusion must show, because the Rev smiles, and pats his cheek.

‘Dick is at a premium on this tour right now, so it was you or the other Way. Which, seeing as I’d just done his brother…’

‘You….’ Johnny is so distracted by this revelation that he doesn’t notice The Rev’s hand slipping into his jeans. ‘Mikey Way? Seriously?’ 

‘And got caught in the act, so I wasn’t going to hang around for a replay. Besides, you smell better than Gerard.’ Jimmy takes a deep breath, which does interesting things to his chest, and Johnny closes his eyes.

Band mate, he tells himself firmly. Stinky, gross band mate who steals my last clean pair of shorts and goes two weeks between showers. Band mate who slept with one of the Way Brothers, for fuck’s sake.

‘Johnny Christ.’ The Rev draws the name out, his lisp catching on the ‘s’, and his lips are so close to Johnny’s neck that he can practically feel the words being mouthed against his skin.

He represses a shiver. Band mate or not, the note in the Rev’s voice is enough to make the hair on his neck rise. In fact, if Johnny’s going to be totally honest, it’s not just his hair rising, and if Jimmy’s hand travels much further south, he’s going to find that out for himself. 

Suddenly, the door to the lounge slams open, and Shadows stomps in. ‘It was the punch!’ he announces loudly.

It’s enough of a surprise that the Rev momentarily lets go, and Johnny scrambles hastily out of reach, and yanks up his jeans, which he hadn’t even realised were open. Jimmy has slick moves.

If Matt’s surprised at finding two of his band mates apparently getting it on, he doesn’t show it. ‘The punch!’ he repeats, as if they’re meant to know what he’s yelling about.’

‘I’ll punch you if you don’t stop cockblocking me,’ Jimmy tells him, crossing his arms and glaring at the other man. The lower letters of the tattoo on his breastbone disappear into a chasm of cleavage, and Johnny feels his mouth go dry.

Shadows rolls his eyes and turns to Johnny. ‘Did you drink any of the punch last night?’

With an effort, Johnny drags his eyes away from the Rev, and shakes his head.

‘Rev?’

Jimmy rolls his eyes. ‘It was alcohol, Shads, and it was free. What do you think?’

Matt turns back towards the door. ‘Vengeance, get in here!’

Zacky, when he appears, also confesses to a glass or six, and Matt punches the air with elation.

‘I knew it!’ he exults, and then heads out of the door at a run.

‘Someone going to tell me what the fuck is going on?’ Zacky demands, glancing nervously from one band member to the other.

Jimmy shrugs, and kicks the door closed. ‘Band orgy, and we’re all invited?’ he suggests.


	11. Chapter 11

Gerard is on his fifth cup of coffee, and his sixth cigarette. Mikey is sat next to him, radiating awkwardness so hard it’s almost palpable, and Ray isn’t looking much better. Frank looks pretty composed, in comparison, but he’s also still on Bob’s lap. He’s even got his hand fisted in the material of one of Bob’s hoodies, although, granted, that may just be because he knows there are cigarettes in there somewhere. Frank is nothing if not opportunistic.

He’s also uncharacteristically silent, gazing out of the window behind Mikey’s head, and generally acting so out of character that Bob is beginning to worry about him. Which is ridiculous, because if Bob’s going to worry about anyone, it should be himself. Bob’s the one who’s suddenly sprouted a new set of genitalia, after all.

It’s Gerard who breaks the silence, blowing a smoke-ring towards the ceiling and asking, in a resigned voice. ‘Okay, so how do we fix this then?’

As ice-breakers go, it’s not great, and Bob has to resist the urge to pop him round the head because seriously, if he knew how to get his balls back, he’d have done it by now.

‘I’m not sure we can fix it,’ he says, and Frank makes a little noise of protest, and transfers his grip from Bob’s hoodie to Bob’s hand. His fingers are cold, and Bob closes his own fingers round them, rubbing his thumb reassuringly over Frank’s tattooed knuckles. 

‘You’re the rational one in this band, Bob,’ Gerard says, ignoring Ray’s comment that in that case, they’re all doomed. ‘You must be able to think of something.’

‘Yeah, remember when we all turned into cats?’ Frank agrees. ‘And Brian had to…’

‘Let’s not go there,’ Mikey interrupts hurriedly. He’s looking rather pink, and Bob guesses he still hasn’t overcome the embarrassment of waking up naked in their manager’s lap. Considering some of the stunts Gerard pulled before he got sober, Bob doesn’t think Mikey has that much to worry about, but Way brother egos are fragile, so he changes the subject.

‘We need to know the cause before we can treat the symptoms, right?’ he says. ‘I know Wentz and his crew went through a whole list of possibilities- anyone got anything more to add to the list?’

Mikey flashes him a grateful look, and then his eyes widen. ‘What if someone’s pulling a prank?’

Bob glances down at Frank, but the smaller boy is shaking his head. “Not me. I prefer the real you.”

There’s a look in his eyes that makes Bob wonder if someone changed the subject while he wasn’t looking. He’s seen that expression on Frank’s face before, but never been on the receiving end of it, and suddenly the temperature in the room seems to go up by several degrees.

He ducks his head, feeling the flush spread up his cheeks, and notices Gerard lifting his coffee cup to his mouth to try and hide a grin.

‘Okay, so if not Frankie, then who?’ Ray demands, oblivious to the byplay. ‘We already know it’s not Pete Wentz, thanks to Patrick’s one man PR efforts. Shall we just go round intimidating everyone on site one by one until someone gives us some answers?’

‘I think we can speed that up a little,’ Gerard says. ‘Doesn’t anyone else think it’s a bit weird that we haven’t heard a peep out of the Cobra crew today. Normally someone like Gabe would be all over this like… like…’

‘White on rice,’ Mikey supplies, and his brother nods his thanks.

Ray is already getting to his feet. ‘It’s proof enough for me. Let’s go squeeze some answers out of Señor Saporta.’

‘I think someone may have beaten you to it,’ Mikey says, gazing out of the window. ‘Unless I’m much mistaken, M Shadows is already on the case.’

‘This I have to see,’ Gerard exclaims, and they all scramble for the door at once.


	12. Chapter 12

Matt is indeed heading for the Cobra bus, and it’s not a social call. He’s sure now that Cobra Starship are at the bottom of all this, and a handful of Gabe Saporta’s teeth sound like the perfect cure for what ails him.

Just as he reaches the door the MCR boys catch up with him, obviously on the same mission. Matt’s not exactly happy at the thought of having to share punching time with them, but as he doesn’t know the code to the Cobra bus, he steps back willingly enough to let Mikey Way reach the keypad.

Matt is all set to go marching into the bus, but something about the hesitant attitudes of the others makes him wait. He doesn’t really know Saporta or the rest of his band, but he’s heard rumours. He thinks Brendon may have been exaggerating about the handcuffs and the basement, and he’s pretty sure the fishnet-clad midget was a figment of Johnny’s imagination, but perhaps a little discretion wouldn’t go amiss here.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Bob says after an awkward period of foot-shuffling. I don’t know about you, Shadows, but I want my balls back. Come on.’

He leads the way into the bus, but they’ve barely got a few steps into the fuggy interior when a man appears out of the gloom. Not just any man, either. He’s dark haired, impossibly slim and graceful, and with an athletic build that Matt can’t help but appreciate, since the stranger is wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. 

Matt doesn’t recognise him at all, but it’s obvious the others do, because there is a concerted gasp from behind him. ‘Vicky-T!’

Matt blinks. He knows that Cobra have a female member, but he remembers a very feminine girl, all long legs and high heels, not this gorgeous, definitely male figure.

But she’s smiling and nodding, even pirouetting to show off her new figure to Gerard, who appears to have forgotten their original goal in the excitement of discussing her transformation. Matt’s not entirely sure how to turn matters back to more important things, and Ray steps in.

‘This is great, Vicky-T, and I’m glad you’re happy with your new dick, but some of us would like ours back. We know Gabe’s at the bottom of this; where is he?’

‘Everywhere. And nowhere. The spirit of the great cobra transcends the limitations of time and space,’ says a voice from the back of the bus. It’s probably meant to sound mystical and shit, but the effect is rather spoilt by the coughing fit that immediately follows.

Mikey rolls his eyes. ‘I told him not to buy those knock-off cigarettes,’ he says to no one in particular.

‘And I told him he was going to live to regret it if he spiked the punch,’ Vicky-T agrees. ‘You know what he’s like.’

Matt ignores them both, instead pushing past them and into the bus lounge. There are bodies draped all over the place in varied attitudes of debauchery, but his quarry isn’t difficult to spot, thanks to Gabe’s rather unfortunate penchant for bright purple. 

‘Ah, Shadows, how nice of you to drop by,’ Gabe says as Matt stalks towards him. ‘You’re looking butch today; how do you like your…’

The end of his sentence is interrupted, as Matt grabs a handful of the other man’s dressing gown and lifts him out of his chair. Gabe’s actually a couple of inches taller than him, albeit far more lightly built, and Matt’s expecting a struggle, but Gabe offers no resistance. One look into his eyes is enough to explain why. Gabe’s pupils are dilated until the brown iris is barely visible, and the whites of his eyes are a delicate shade of pink. 

Following an unfortunate incident involving Johnny Christ’s front teeth, Shads doesn’t hit people who are too stoned to hit back, so he lets go and Gabe sprawls back into his chair, dressing gown falling open to expose a lot more of him than Matt ever wanted to see.

‘I didn’t come here to talk about it,’ Matt tells him. ‘I want to change back, now.’

‘No can do, mi corazon,’ Gabe drawls, and Matt starts rapidly rethinking his policy. Dental crowns are a lot cheaper these days, and it wouldn’t hurt Gabe to spend a few weeks eating soup through a straw.

Unfortunately for Gabe’s dentist’s retirement fund, Victoria intervenes at this point. ‘It’s temporary,’ she assures him. ‘I wanted to see what it was like to be a guy and… well, things got a bit out of hand. It’ll wear off at midday.’

‘High noon!’ Gabe cackles, and runs a possessive hand down Vicky-T’s thigh.

Matt glances down at his watch, which he knows is a little slow. It’s already five to twelve, and it’s this, more than anything else, that saves Gabe’s ass. Matt’s not sure entirely what’s going to happen when he changes back, but he’s pretty sure it won’t be pleasant, and he really doesn’t want it to happen in Cobra Starship’s living room, so he runs for it.


	13. Chapter 13

Spencer is making coffee when the noises from Brendon’s bunk finally make it through his mental filter. On the one hand, he should probably be pleased that his band are all coping so well with the sudden sex change. On the other hand, he’s trapped in the bus listening Brendon get himself off, repeatedly and with enthusiasm, and that was not on his list of things to do today.

If he allowed himself to dwell on it for too long, Spencer thinks he probably would start to panic. He’s not even had this body for that long, and this new female figure is uncomfortably reminiscent of adolescent chub and the crippling self-consciousness that came with it. He knows he’s reverted back to bitch type – the same sort that got him through high school in one piece – and he thinks he was pretty much an asshole to Matt earlier. He’s been thinking about taking a six pack over there at some point to apologise.

Brendon reaches another crescendo and Spencer jumps to his feet. There’s no time like the present, and even grovelling to M Shadows has to be better than listening to Brendon Urie Does Porn.

He’s halfway to their bus when something twists in the bottom of his stomach, like a sucker-punch from the inside. He drops to his knees, and hears a smash as the six pack bites the dust, but it doesn’t seem important compared to the universe turning him inside out. 

There’s a blurry moment of noise and wrongness, and then he comes back to himself to find he’s on his hands and knees in the dirty grass, with beer and broken glass pooling around him. It’s an effort to even move, but he manages to get one hand to his jeans, and sags in relief to find his cock is back where it should be.

Of course, it would be at that moment M Shadows finds him. Spencer cringes, but Matt just offers him an arm to pull him to his feet, and starts dusting glass off his jeans.

‘It’s okay, Spencer, you’re okay,’ Matt’s saying, and Spencer notes Matt’s voice is back to its usual growl. ‘You hurt anywhere?’

‘Ego, mainly,’ Spencer says.

‘Fucking tell me about it,’ Shadows says ruefully. ‘That’s a shit ton of broken glass, dude, you sure you’re not cut?’ 

He turns Spencer’s hands over in his own, and Spencer feels the flush run up his neck, both at the contact, and at the fact Matt is being so kind to him when he’s been such a dick in return. 

‘I’m sorry I was an asshole,’ he blurts, before he can change his mind. ‘I should’ve known it wasn’t you, but you said last night something about seeing what the morning brings, and when I woke up with tits I thought…’

‘Holy shit, I bet you did!’ Matt sounds amused rather than angry, and when Spencer looks up he sees the other man is laughing, dimples flashing in his cheeks. ‘My bad reputation, I guess. I’ve done a lot of shit, but I’ve never tried to force anyone into a sex change. You can thank Gabe Saporta for that one.’

‘I already figured it wasn’t you,’ Spencer says, but tactfully doesn’t mention why. Matt probably doesn’t want to be reminded of how awful he looked as a chick. Instead, he points at the broken glass. ‘I was actually on my way over with some beer to say sorry.’

‘You didn’t need to do that, dude,’ Matt says. He’s still holding Spencer’s hands, like he’s forgotten to let go, and there’s a soft look in his eyes that makes Spencer’s heart skip a beat. Now or never, right?

He drops his eyelashes over his eyes and looks up at the taller guy. ‘Yeah, well, seeing as the beer was a failure, maybe I could make it up to you some other way?’

‘Oh fuck yes,’ Matt stutters, and then he’s pressing Spencer back against the side of the nearest merch trailer. Spencer tilts his head back to meet Matt’s lips; hot, hard and urgent against his own. It’s fucking incredible, and if Spencer had known he was going to get this response he’d have jumped Matt much earlier in the tour. 

‘Fuck, your hips,’ Matt groans, pulling back for a breath. ‘Your mouth!’

‘Yeah, about that,’ Spencer says, unable to hold back a smirk. He’s been thinking about this since he first saw Matt onstage. He wriggles out of Matt’s grip and drops to his knees, and Matt lets out a groan, thunking his head back against the metal wall of the trailer. 

Spencer reaches for the fly of Matt’s jeans and purrs in satisfaction as Matt’s hands thread into his hair, sending sparks right down his spine to his dick. God, he’s never been happier to be a guy.


	14. Chapter 14

Frank is torn between fascination and horror watching his bandmates change back. He’s not squeamish as a rule, but hearing someone’s nose reshape itself is enough to turn anyone’s stomach. 

‘Fuck, was that as bad as it sounded?’ he asks, when they’ve all stopped writhing.

‘Worse,’ Bob grunts, straightening up. He’s a bit pale, but otherwise back to normal, and Frank has never been happier to see two days of ginger stubble. ‘Jesus fuck, I’m glad I was unconscious the first time round.’

Ray groans in agreement. He’s slumped on the couch, hair over his face, and Mikey is sprawled out next to him, with Gerard hovering anxiously above.

‘Are you guys ok?’ he asks worriedly. ‘Mikey, are you…’

‘I’m fine, Gee,’ Mikey says.

‘You’re, uh, you got your…’

Mikey sits up and glares at his brother. ‘You are not about to ask me if I got my cock back, are you?’

‘I’m just concerned,’ Gerard says earnestly.

‘Private parts are private for a reason,’ Mikey says, the fucking hypocrite, as if he wasn’t the one caught fucking the Rev on that very couch a few hours earlier.

‘A-fucking-men,’ Ray says, getting to his feet. ‘And on that note, please excuse me.’

He pushes past them towards the bunk area, and pulls the door closed after him.

‘Well, that was subtle,’ Bob says.

‘Oh come on, you know you’re dying to check yours is present and correct,’ Franks teases, and Bob blushes in response, which is just unbearably cute. 

Gerard clears his throat. ‘We’re, uh, we’re gonna take a walk now,’ he says, grabbing Mikey’s hand.

‘We are?’ Mike asks, and Gerard waggles his eyebrows at him in one of their freaky Way Brother mind melds. ‘Um, I mean, we totally are. Going for a walk. To, uh, check everyone else is okay.’

Gerard rolls his eyes and practically shoves Mikey out of the bus, then pokes his head back in. ‘Don’t stain the couch!’ he warns, and then disappears before Frank can throw something at him. 

Frank hears the click as the lock re-engages and then it’s just him and Bob. He feels suddenly awkward, but he tilts his chin up and grins at the other man. ‘Now that really was subtle,’ he jokes.

‘Hmmm,’ is all Bob says. He drops onto the couch and pats the seat next to him. Frank doesn’t need any more invitation than that, and immediately cuddles in next to him. Girl Bob was pretty nice to hang on to, he’s not gonna lie, but the real thing is a whole lot better. Bob’s hand scritches affectionately at the back of his neck, and Frank represses a shiver. 

‘So, uh, speaking of subtle,’ Bob says, and while his tone is casual, his fingers tense on Frank’s neck as he speaks. ‘Was there something you wanted to tell me? Cos I’m an old fashioned guy, and I think it should be up to the extroverted loudmouth exhibitionist to make the first move.’

 _I can do that_ Frank thinks, and scrambles onto Bob’s lap for about the fourth time that day. Only this time, Bob gasps and rolls his hips up to meet him, and when Frank leans forwards, it’s into the wet heat of Bob’s mouth on his.

Bob kisses like a drummer – all smooth rhythm counterpointed by the rock of his hips up against Frank. And the man can multi-task too, witness the way he’s got one hand up Frank’s t-shirt, and the other hooked in his jeans, holding him down for maximum friction. Actually, there are way too many clothes involved here, and Frank reluctantly pulls back and tugs at Bob’s hoody.

‘Off,’ he orders, yanking his own shirt off and then unbuckling his jeans. ‘Too many clothes!’

‘Like I said, exhibitionist,’ Bob says, but he gives in and lets Frank peel off his hoody and shirt. He’s freckled all over, and Frank promises himself some quality time cataloguing them at some point, but right now he’s got Bob hard and eager against him, and God, he’s been dying for this.

Bob pulls him back down again, this time with a hand each between them, hot and slick and just the right side of too tight, and Frank has to grit his teeth or risk embarrassing himself. He distracts himself by licking at Bob’s throat, tasting smooth soapy skin and feeling the reverb of Bob’s harsh breaths. Then he tries a tentative bite and Bob throws his head back and shouts, hand tightening around them both, before spilling wet heat over Frank’s wrist. It’s too much and too good all at once and Frank follows suit with a yell of his own.

They rest for a second, foreheads touching, then Bob presses a kiss to Frank’s lips and sits up, wiping his hand on Frank's jeans

‘Ew, gross,’ Frank complains. ‘You wouldn’t do that if you loved me’

‘We can test that theory later,’ Bob promises. 

And they do, and Frank is proved wrong. Repeatedly. But all things considered, he doesn't really mind.


End file.
